Midnight Decisions
by babyb26
Summary: This is chapter 1 of a 5 part anthology series revolving around our best leading man-John Smith and Pocahontas and lots of character from the movie, and history in their adventures! Warning there might be AU's, time travels, new ladies, and/or some interesting prompt based stories. Some stories may come in multiple installments. So, hang onto your hats ladies and gents.
1. Between a Powhatan and a Hard Place

_**Midnight Decisions**_

 ** _By_**

 ** _Babyb26_**

This is chapter 1 of a 5 part anthology series of what I call fluff-smex stories, yes stories that are one part fluff and light sexiness, revolving around our best leading man- John Smith and Pocahontas! Warning there might be AU's, time travels, new ladies, and/or some interesting prompt based stories. Some stories may come in multiple installments. So, hang onto your hats ladies and gents.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but any original characters that may or may not show up in this anthology of fluff-smex stories.

Rated- T-M for mature situations (tastefully done mind you)

Story #1 - Between a Powhatan and a Hard Place

He could feel her nails piercing through his thin linen shirt and he didn't mind the pain at all. As her hands grasp his shoulders tighter, his own made their way to her thighs as his mouth sampled the flesh of her throat. Their breaths mingled together and in his sudden movement their bodies aligned. Her gasp, the small intake of air, told him much and he broke their heated kiss. His desire for her was ever present through the thin deerskin dress encasing her body. Blinking once and then twice he untangled their arms and moved away from his beloved. The fire was warm against his body and made him slightly dizzy as he gathered his shirt back into place, and his things back into his pack.

He knew he should not have stayed, but the invitation of her good meal and warm hold was more than tempting for the newly engaged captain. She did not try to stop him as he gathered his items and from the corner of his eye he could see her puzzled expression and a hand running through the length of her dark hair. They exchanged brief words, vowing to meet on the morrow, and shared a much less heated kiss as he exited her longhouse.

The long brisk walk back to Jamestown helped and he was able to stop thinking about the feel of her thighs around him, and how sweet her lips tasted against his. His blood cooled even further as his flesh met the cool night air, as he washed his day clothing and himself in the river. It was only as he lay in his lonely cabin on the edge of the fort that he remembered the way her hair glistened in the firelight and how warm her fingers were as they trailed up and down part of his unclothed torso, and finally rested against the sensitive flesh of his healed wound. In his darkened cabin he missed her most; not just her feel or warmth, but he missed the way her heart beat in time with his. How did he tell his body that it was not yet allowed to enjoy her heart beats, her caresses, her taste, or her warmth? How does one talk to a body and explain the rules of English honor? Try as he might, he could not bridge the disconnect between his mind, heart, and body; especially when it seemed his heart and body were in one accord.

The soft tapping at his door came late into the night, long after he had put his mind, heart, and body to rest. Dressed only in his linen breeks his heavy footsteps padded across his oak hewn floor. Not expecting a visitor and fearing only the worse in the dead of night, John Smith pulled open the cabin door, and to his surprise, saw his fiancé awaiting.

"Pocahontas" he asked bewildered.

"It is me John Smith"

In the dark night, he could see her shiver as an autumn wind moved through the trees. He pulled the door open wider and allowed her admittance into his small cabin. She sat in a chair near his bed and the room's hearth.

"Pocahontas what's wrong? Is everything alright?" concerned laced his voice.

He didn't know what he expected her to say, but it certainly was not what she said.

"I could not sleep John Smith. I needed to know why you pulled away from me earlier. Why you left me in such a hurry? What did I do wrong?"

Puzzled by her question he sat on the edge of his bed and ran his long fingers through his hair. How could he explain what had happened to him, how she made him feel? Sighing and trying to keep his face from turning a healthy shade of pink, he explained as best he could.

"Pocahontas… love, you did nothing. I didn't intend on leaving you like that, it's just that… I desired you greatly in that moment and I know it… it must have frightened you, so I left. I am so sorry to have alarmed you, I…"

She stood and walked to him, placing a finger to his lips and in effect silenced him.

"Was it only your body that desired me?" She asked.

"No! My heart, my mind, my everything desires you… and not just your body Pocahontas, but you! I desire your mind, your heart, your kindness, your smile, your touch, your everything. I desire all of you my love and sometimes I get consumed with that… I apologize."

"John Smith you are strong, handsome, brave, compassionate, and above all- I know you love me as much as I love you. But you are thick headed. Did you know that?"

It was his turn to give her a puzzled look.

"What am I missing Pocahontas?"

"I too desire you and want you near. You… your desire did not frighten me." A smile quickened across the reddish amber plains of her face.

He was surprised by her words.

"Pocahontas, as English honor dictates… I let thing go too far… we are not married yet and I couldn't control my desire for you. I…"

This time she entered into the space between his legs and cupping the sides of his face between her hands, brought his soft cupid bow lips toward her. She silenced him this time, in a heated kiss.

When they broke apart she asked, "John Smith do you not feel my desire of you?"

Her small hand grabbed his larger one and placed it over her left breast. John Smith could feel her heart thud wildly through his hand and he was sure that its beats matched his. He nodded in answer to her. He could feel her desire and it had always matched his.

"John Smith you are an Englishmen, but this is not England and I am not an English woman. We of the Powhatan people have our own honor and I am a Powhatan woman, do not do forget this."

She continued to kiss him and her hand rose toward his own heart. Their hearts beat faster in time.

"What does that mean Pocahontas?" He asked, breaking the kiss and yet pulling her closer to him. Confusion marred his handsome face and he worried that he had insulted the love of his life.

"It means that Powhatan women have desires. I have desires and we are free to act on them. It means that for us to be truly betrothed by my people, we need to be with child by our wedding day. Our honor is placed on the strength of the warrior, our families, and the strength of the tribe."

He had not known, yet he had. The last three Powhatan wedding feast he had attended the brides had been swollen with child. He had politely held his tongue and asked no questions as he sat round the fire eating the sweet meats offered to him by the elder village women. John Smith had figured that the tribe had already gossiped enough about the couples and were happy enough for the wedding and the expected new life. It never occurred to him that this was a tradition for his new people, that this and desire, were simply a part of their everyday lives. _Had he ignored all these facts in his own betrothal?_ _Had he tried to make her English?_ It certainly was not what he wanted for her nor for them, this was his life now and they, her people, they were now his own.

"Forgive me love. " It was heartfelt and sincere.

"What can I do to honor you and our people?" He spoke as she went back to tracing the outlines of his stomach and still sensitive wound. He felt his longing for her build again.

Her full lips met his and in between kisses she spoke, "You honor me by your courage, in saving my father and by protecting me, and my people, from even your own, John Smith. All I ask is that you honor me and our marriage with your desire, for I am unafraid."

The only response he could manage was to kiss her in return. His decision was made and he would do as she asked. That dark desolate midnight they honored each other with their desires and started the journey toward the rest of their lives.

He brought her into the full circle of his embrace, his arms locking around her form. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails again marking his flesh. He felt no pain, just the binding and yielding of their two hearts.

John Smith's calloused hands moved over the small of her back and traced lines down the deer skin that covered Pocahontas' body. One hand caught into the small opening between her dress and thigh. Her audible gasp opened her mouth wider and allowed him to deepen their kiss. Tracing the warm heat of his hands up the back of her thighs, her hands tightened as they clutched his shoulders. He released her mouth and looked into the obsidian depths of her eyes. In the orange glow of the room he saw within the dark depths pure yearning and it caused a bolt of heat to move throughout his body. A bright smile again crossed Pocahontas's face and she pulled him close. His head lay against her heart and from its paced rhythm, knew that they beat in time.

John Smith's hands again made the journey upward, but this time they brought the soft pale colored dress with them as it moved up and over her form. Smooth amber brown skin mixed with flakes of copper met his eyes, as fire light flickered across her body. She was beautiful, simply beautiful. Her hands reached for his face and once again pulled him to her heart.

Inhaling against her silken skin, he battled to slow the beating of his heart. She smelled of pure light, rainwater, and wildflowers. It was an intoxicating scent that was slowly driving him mad as she held him. Raising his head, he looked into her dark ebony eyes once again.

He prayed that they would find everlasting happiness in their marriage, that the darkness that had haunted his dreams would be washed away by the grace of her heart, and that her womb would bear the fruit of their love from this night. Opening his eyes and his hands clutching her close, John Smith eased Pocahontas down upon his humble bed.

Laying side by side in in the darkness, their mouths molded themselves together as each caressed the other. Her hands traced patterns on his cloth covered hips and his played with the softness of her shoulders. Deeping their kiss in time, flames of passion crept up his body and enraptured his heart. Feeling his passion and wanting most sincerely to love her entire, John Smith griped her hands softly and brought them to his chest. He kissed the very palms that had brought him so much joy, from their first loving touch along a winding river path; to the torrent of pleasure she just sent pulsing through his body, John Smith knew that in this moment he could not be any happier. Looking deep into her eyes, he looked for any signs of fear or discomfort and he found none, only joy in her dark depths. In boldness, he placed a tender kiss above her heart and her arms enfolded around him in sincere welcome. He had often seen beauty and had taken it for granted many times, yet tonight- in the orange glow of firelight- he beheld her splendor and it ingrained itself into his heart.

The fire flickered throughout the night, as the rhythm of her hips set their pace and they moved in time in the warm glow of the night. The profound love and need that grew during the night moved them across the veil into lovers. Tender in his love of her, there had been discomfort when he made them of one flesh and yet her body adjusted to being wedded to his. His calloused hands softy wiped away the trail of warm tears that had fallen from her eyes and his whispered words of love helped her past the discomfort. He waited until she felt a deep aching need to move and learn the secret desires of his body. Hands grasping, breathes coming in shallow intakes, and hearts pounding together; their bodies danced in the moonless night. In the receding darkness they held each other and prayed together that the fruits of their love this night; would bring unto them a child, born of an undying love and unyielding passion.

The bright yellow sun showen through gray clouds as settlers and tribesmen gathered at the Powhatan ceremonial grounds. The early Spring rain had held off and John Smith was certainly glad it had done so as he watched his bride weave through the crowds of their interwoven peoples. The trail of Pocahontas' long doe skin dress moved softly along the soft green grass, until she came to a stop at the arched wooden and deer antler alter to her god of sky. It was a god day to praise the maker John Smith thought to himself as he gazed into the dark depths of his beloved and soon to be mother. She was beautiful and the gently wove white seed pearls in her hair did nothing to distract her radiant, motherly, glow. She grasped his hand, in a forever hold, and they turned together facing the Powhantan as he begun the ceremony that would make them man and wife.

John Smith remembered how the people gathered for food around the roaring fire, neither he nor Pocahontas had escaped the idle chatter of the men and women fawning, grimacing, or congratulating them on their wedded bliss and impeding birth. That day he couldn't help but notice the older women running there well-worn hands over his love's round middle and proclaiming her to have swallowed a full corn moon, while others claimed that a large girl would be born unto them. His friends had slapped him hard on his back and playfully called him a rascal as they stared, some enviously, at his beautiful bride and soon to be born family. Others, like Reverend Highgate outright refused to come to the Indian village and witness the wedding of two fornicators, yet were eager to add his child to the baptismal rolls and church collections of Jamestown. That day he realized that he had made the right decision that midnight months ago; it all no longer matter to him. Nothing mattered, neither honor nor pride- nothing- as long as she and his child were; safe, happy, and loved.

The red and gold Fall leaves floated down, softly, on the breeze toward the forest floor. John Smith lay prone on the wooded ground, among the leaves. Eyes closed to the canopy above him, he took in the sights and sounds of the quite forest surrounding him. A sudden rustle in the distance alerted him to his fast approaching family and his brake from the monotony of parenthood unexpectedly over. He had no regrets and he was grateful to his god for the gift of life and love shown to Pocahontas and himself. He heard them call, yet waited in the dry leaves for the rain of expected hugs they'd shower over him. The two week foray into Messawoemeck territory had cost him many nights of loneliness, worry, and ponder at what he'd be missing and what he'd learned in the past few years of his life. He could hear the leaves scatter against the ground as they made their way forward, stubborn to his very bones; John Smith refused to give up his silent peace. Although, glad to be home, the memories of the recent past had called to him and he lay upon the ground in reflection, as he waited for his family to return, and had let the happy memories over flow.

A shower of dry leaves and laughter poured over him and he could no longer keep his eyes closed to the joy of his family. Opening his pale blue eyes, John Smith found two precious pair that matched his. With warm hugs and great laughter he greeted his five year old sons, identical to the raven color hair upon their heads, yet he searched for another pair of eyes and found them in the distance. Although being heavily pregnant prevented her from keeping up with the boys, she was no less radiant and he longed to be again in her arms. Completing the circle of family on the ground, Pocahontas reached for him and John Smith surrendered to her embrace. While he could not have imagined, years ago, the great joy he had been on the cusp of living, he was no less grateful and happily blessed that he had not turned away from his midnight decision.


	2. Empire of Shadows Chapter 1

This is Story 2 of a 5 part anthology series of what I call fluff-smex stories, yes stories that are one part fluff and light sexiness, revolving around our best leading man- John Smith, Pocahontas, and lots of character from the movie and history! Some stories may come in multiple installments. So, hang onto your hats ladies and gents.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but any original characters that may or may not show up in this anthology of fluff-smex stories.

 **Empire of Shadows**

By

Babyb26

This particular story installment is an AU inspired by ancient Rome but set in an Jacobean New World (yeah I get crazy plot bunnies but just stick with me, it works out! Warning this story line will have multiple installments.

Chapter 1- Ad Ignotum= Toward the Unknown

 **Music: Hagia Sophia by Irfan**

 _Circassia Border, Armenia -1605_

Cerulean skies painted the land in the warm colors of summer. The harsh brightness across the landscape lay in harsh contrast, against the gray shadows that dotted the barren wilderness, on the other side of the mountain. As he stood watching the ominous clouds over take the brightly lit boundary of the Sultan Mountains, he knew this journey would ultimately lead to his disaster. As he sat on his sable colored mount dressed in a multitude of fine Asian silks and Venetian velvets, sweat in stinging rivets rolled down his back. Although, He knew the journey would be long and his mission in no terms a suggestion, he had not accounted for the blasted heat. He had heard tales of this land from the various captains he had met on his the trek, but never once did he bother asking about the bloody climate. A clap of thunder in the distance brought his attention back to his guide, a swarthy colored Turk, who sat handsome in his saddle. Although the brut was a heathen, he could not fathom a more arresting specimen of man in this godforsaken land. Covered in light cloth, his brown smooth skin lay in total contrast. His guide had tried to persuade him to dress in the Bedouin style, one common in this area of Anatolia, but he had declined, his understanding being _what could a heathen know about travel fashion?_ Now sitting in his chafing saddle and boiling in London's latest wares he thought better of the savage. Moving along paths surely traversed since the formation of the ancient Silk Road, the self-proclaimed merchant, newly minted slave trader for the Virginia Company-John Ratcliff- followed his guide to a destination most assuredly unknown.

 _Central Crimea, winter,-1606_

The whip snapped across his back as he stood bent, frozen, in his work. The rock was heavy in his hands and the silence around him was defining. Deep in static concentration, mind heavily focused on the memory of his native Lincolnshire, the man had not heard the warning his men and fellow slaves made. Another slash opened up his back and he felt fast rivers of scarlet racing down the curves of his body. The third strike landed a stinging gash to his left arm and tumbled the five-stone rock from his hands. Each day he had silently prayed and perhaps today, he would have its fulfillment. Pivoting away from his whip wielding captor, the fourth strike would have hit him dead center to the chest, he caught ends of the leather throng in his calloused hand. The claws of the nine tail dung into his palm and crimson pools welled in its center. He refused to let got. In frustration his captor pulled hoping to further lacerate and destroy the use of the slave's hand. To no avail, the hide and metal cord did not move. The slave, it seems, was a glutton for punishment. Covered in light whip marks, branded shoulders, and most recently- healing ribs; the tall well-formed man refused in kind, to release the weapon of his reprimand. Releasing the braided scourger the guard moved on to his scimitar, it being his weapon of choice.

Charging at the slave at full speed, the guard had forgot one thing, that as the heavens had brought needed water to the parched earth, it had also made the ground heavily, saturated, and cumbersome to traverse. In his water weighted boots and tunic the guard stumbled toward his charge. Catching the guard unbalanced, the un-humble slave used his muscle bound body to angle away from the charging man and drawn sword. Snatching the falling guard with his long arms, the taller man used his momentum, twisting in an upward motion, to send the guard's body sailing it toward the ground feet way. The scimitar, like its handler, lay fallen upon the soft ground. The man's fist found their place into the guards face and upper body. As rage took over from detached compliance, spittle - as red as rubies-few from the prone man's mouth. A glimmer of silver caught in the slave's eye, the scimitar calling to him. In answer, he reached for the weapon, the weight of the cold metal felt at home in his hands. With arms raised skyward the slave swung downward, the force catching a hiss upon the breeze. Bringing the sword downward, it found its home in awaiting flesh over and over again. Crimson rivers stained the supple earth, as a roar proclaiming victory reached skyward. In the distance, horse hooves pounded the sodden terrain in fast approach. Yes, it seemed the man's pleas for death would be answered.

Warm rain drops trickled down the already moistened neck of John Ratcliff. Nearly delirious with heat he raised his face skyward letting the wayward hot drops hit his face. "Damn it to hell, even the rain's hellish!" the words erupted harshly from his cavernous mouth, breaking the stark silence of the arid landscape. Turning in his saddle, the chestnut colored eyes of Radcliff's Turk went to the hunched form of the New World's next Lanista. The white infidel looked close to death, but the guide would offer no words of caution, they were not headed any way. Turning from the weighty white savage, the guide, Adskhan, focused his energy on guiding his horse over the next ridge. Ratcliff's parched throat felt ever dryer since his brash proclamation to no one, sensing the urge to gather the decorum of a man of his station, he lowered his eyes back to the rugged landscape and in the distance he saw salvation.

His approach was swift, abet his great bulk weighing down his horse, and they would reach the clay and stone structure of the fortress within the hour. In the passage of time Ratcliff debated the decree of his king. Ordered to bring back fighting men, of preferably English stock, to entertain the masses of the New Word; Ratcliff, as he sat upon his stallion, came to the conclusion that he would rather, _rule in hell- than loose his head in the Old Word._ Disgraced, broke, and banished, the New World offered Ratcliff what he could no longer gain by title alone. With the aid of blood and death-much death- a whole new world would be in his clutches. _Good English men will die for my rise,_ Ratcliff thought after searching his soul and concluded that _what was life, if one could not profit from death?_ He would find his fighter, his foundation stallion, his Attilus of old, his slave to die upon England's newest shores and with that death- glory and power would be his. _Yes,_ he thought. If Ratcliff survived this journey _,_ deserters and captives would be hisor at least he'd have died trying.

A distinct burning sensation brought the slave back to his surroundings. The feel of hot metal meeting flesh was unmistakable and his face lowered to his chest as he fell to his knees. What sounded like thunder in the distance rang in his ear, but the unequivocal scalding feeling in his side let him know that he had been shot a second time. Jolts of pain coursed through his body as thick black blood began to seeping from his wounded shoulder and side. His right arm fell limply and his body jerked forward toward the ground. Unable to right himself, his blood pooling beneath him, and the mud stealing his breath; the captive, soldier, captain, the man named John Smith gave into the embrace of death and he was glad to see it.

In his weakness, the gun's kickback nearly knocked him from his horse, twice. Ratcliff's heavily built frame struggled to stay is his saddle, as he grabbed the rains of his horse and dashed toward the blond beast he had just shot, twice. Later as the light of his consciousness dimmed in agony and the memories of his mortal depravities lay recollected for review, Ratcliff would remember, _I_ _should have killed the brawny bastard!_ However, in the moment of first recognition, perhaps it was dehydration; he was stilled by terrible beauty and terror. From a top his weathered white stallion the slaver beheld the wretched vestige of his countryman. The man stood six foot plus and the berth of his wide shoulders was measured by the rain and sanguine drops. Ratcliff was for lack of a better word, awe struck at the striking barbarity of the Englishman's appearance. Where the dark beauty of his guide had inspired desperate thoughts of tangled limbs in the spiced rooms of west Asia, this golden man was surely worthy of worship by himself and the thundering crowds of a New World. _Yes,_ the captive would have a glorious death in his arena and fill his pocket with coin. If only, the damn slave could be persuaded to stay in this life awhile longer, _perhaps one shot would have sufficed_?


End file.
